


Dear Self-Satisfied Pompous Gorgeous Insufferable Assface

by Dojh167



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: HPFT, Gratuitous Swearing, Harry Potter Next Generation, Ignores cursed child, Letter fic, M/M, Scorbus, angry angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 00:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8266741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dojh167/pseuds/Dojh167
Summary: I told you I wouldn’t write to you.
    
    I told myself I wouldn’t write to you.
    
    And now I’m telling you those things while clearly writing to you.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MuggleMaybe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuggleMaybe/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Renee!! 

Scoprius,

I told you I wouldn’t write to you. I told myself I wouldn’t write to you. And now I’m telling you those things while clearly writing to you. Fuck.

I just have to say

Fuck. No. Shit. Forget this all, I shouldn’t have written this shit. Another one for the bin.

* * *

Al,

So… Does your owl have a habit of rummaging through your bin, finding the most crumpled and expletive filled letters, pressing them neatly into an envelope, and delivering them? If so, you should probably get that checked up on.

Just asking cause, you know, reasons.

Scorpius.

* * *

Fuckshitdamn.

I don’t know what I thought would happen when I dug that sorry excuse for an attempt of a letter that said absolutely nothing out of the rubbish and sent it to you. I don’t know what I thought would happen when your owl tapped on my window. I don’t know what the fuck I think will happen now that I am apparently writing back

In summary: I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing. 

* * *

Well, Al, I wouldn’t say that sorry excuse for an attempt at a letter really said nothing...

At least not to me.

To me it said that your hand was sweating and you gripped your quill too tight. It said that you swore more aloud than ever made it to the page. It says that after you tossed the letter aside you paced back and forth, like you do, traveling a shorter distance with each turn, until at last your path gave way to a pivot and with nowhere left to go you made a beeline back to the letter. It said that you considered rewriting it, but could find no better phrasing. It said that you thought that any words were better than no words. It said that when you stood in front of me in King’s Cross, cold and stoic as can be, and told me we were through, that that wasn’t the end of the story.

If you no longer wish to honour what you said then, I am, as always,

Your Scorpius.  


* * *

Dear self-satisfied pompous gorgeous insufferable assface Scorpius,

For your information, I used a ballpoint pen, not a quill. If you can’t tell that from reading a fucking letter, someone needs to have a serious conversation with the sorting hat about what makes a fucking Ravenclaw. 

But since you bring it up, what I actually said at King’s Cross was that I didn’t want to hear from you again. And I damn well meant it. It’s you who hasn’t fucking honoured that. 

You won’t let me go. You harass me in my dreams. You berate my thoughts. You’ve long since claimed my past as your territory and you are threatening to colonize my future.

I’m ready to be through with you as soon as you fucking fuck off.

* * *

Precious tortured Al,

Your sweet lamentations have - 

No, you’re right. I’m sorry. I have no right to play at flirting with you. 

While I can’t take full responsibility for all you have charged me with, I also can’t fully acquit myself.

And while my heart already pounds in anticipation of your owl returning once it departs with this letter, I know it is not appropriate. You are no longer mine, and you wish to be free of me. I can only allow you to do so and hope that the memory of our time together abandons its conquest of your dreams, your thoughts, your future. My only wishes for them are that they learn to serve your commands and forget that they ever bowed to my desires.

In sincere farewell, 

Scorpius.

* * *

In sincere farewell???

Like that’s fucking that? Talk about cold and stoic, Scorpius Cockburger Malfoy.

* * *

Scorpius. Come on. Really. 

* * *

Scoooooorpiuuuus

Okay. Fine. I’ll bring out the good stuff. Dig deep, as mum says.

You are an amazingly fucked up piece of shit, you know that? It blows my mind how much of an out of this world dipshit dump bucket you are. We’re talking professional shitmonkey status here. The artist formerly known as leaking turd fucker. I could hop up my own ass and never become as rank a rotting sack of excrement as you. Badly drawn nutsack collector. Cockthistle. And you know fucking what? Fudge hogger for good measure. 

Okay, that wasn’t really what I was going for. But you always seem to know that. You could read those words and see through to them to what I was really feeling and trying to say. Fuck, you could see to things I didn’t even know I felt, let alone was trying to say. Oh, schlong on a stick, if you can do that with a paragraph of cursing, I hate to think what the hell you would get out of this one.

But back to the good stuff. Dig deep.

You know what, that is the fucking good stuff. I started out right before with “you are amazingly/it blows my mind.” Just apply that to the whole schlong on a stick paragraph, and I think we get to the heart of why I can’t bear to be without you.

And yes, it is your fucking fault. You are so twistedly perfect for me, and I can’t think of whose fault that is but your own. You make sense of me. You take this whirlwind that exists within me, that expresses itself in storms and debris, and you see it, accept it, understand it. You make me make sense. 

I’ve never fit anywhere in my life. I’ve gotten used to that. When you don’t know what it’s like to smooth your edges into the expected shape to fit the world around you, you stop expecting to fit. Not belonging was my normal. Not being understood.That way that people look at me when they realize that I’m just a little too far outside what they’re prepared to accept and it’s better not to see me at all.

But you, Scorpius. You saw me. And I don’t think for a minute that any part of you tried to reject who I was or fit me to any expected shape. You understood me for me, apart from what you or anyone else wanted me to be.

And do you have any idea how fucking scrotum vise that is? To be seen as something different from how I’ve been seen all my fucking life? And to be seen with more depth that I’ve ever looked at myself?

Of course I wanted you. Of course I couldn’t tear myself away. I groped at you in dark rooms and tried to devour every inch of you I could. If I could tear off enough layers of your clothes and your flesh, maybe I could get to the root of you, to try to find what is was in your emptiness that understood me so clearly. But in the dark, always in the dark, lest your eyes saw right through me and consumed me whole.

I never expected to know anyone like you. I never wanted to. 

And now that I know you exist and how much that burns me, I don’t know how to exist without you. Or with you. I don’t - I just. I don’t know which I want, and if I can or want to do either.  


* * *

Al.

I told you I wouldn’t write to you. I told myself I wouldn’t write to you. And now I’m telling you those things while clearly writing to you.

Scorpius.

* * *

You’re right. That letter does say a lot. 

Al.


End file.
